


Brushstroke

by YellowMustard



Category: Dear Evan Hansen - Pasek & Paul/Levenson
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Angst, Boys In Love, College AU, Established Relationship, Fluff, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide attempt, M/M, Nightmares, Tree Bros, boys being soft, connor being a good boyfriend, soft connor, soft evan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-15
Updated: 2019-10-15
Packaged: 2020-12-16 18:50:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21041045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YellowMustard/pseuds/YellowMustard
Summary: Evan lets out this gasping little sob, and he twists his face away from Connor's neck, pulling back. And when he finally speaks it's so choked up, so timid, that it takes Connor a moment to decipher what he's saying."Can you...do the thing?"Connor knows exactly what he's talking about.(OR: Evan has a nightmare. Connor calms him down.)





	Brushstroke

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cecropia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cecropia/gifts).

> Me again!
> 
> This one is a surprise (not-so-surprise) gift for cecropia, who is my complete and absolute ~favourite~ and the most lovely and lovable human I have ever met and I love love love. Thanks for bringing us together, AO3. I do not deserve a bestie this wonderful. 
> 
> Hurt/comfort, fluff, humour - bit of everything! No smut though, sorry guys (well...a *tiiiiny* bit of referenced smut actually. Tiny bit.)
> 
> TW: References to a suicide attempt, suicide ideation. Emphasis is on recovery and healing, however, because that's what I'm about, fam.
> 
> follow my shiny new deh tumblr! https://theyellowestmustard.tumblr.com/

* * *

Evan is whimpering.

It's just gone two in the morning. The room is dark, and perhaps a little too warm; just verging on uncomfortable. There's a thin streak of moonlight slicing through the gap in the curtains; the only source of light in the room, just enough for Connor to make out Evan's furrowed brow and trembling bottom lip. His eyes are closed, and he's gasping like it's taking genuine effort to draw in each breath.

And he's whimpering.

In some other context, Connor supposes all of this might be a good thing. The sound is incredibly close to some of the other noises Evan makes at night, the beautiful ones that tattoo themselves to Connor's brain and send rolling heat up his spine. 

The fluttering closed eyes and the labored breaths are reminiscent of something else, too. 

But that's not what's happening. Not even close.

Connor's hands dart out across the tangled sheets to catch Evan's shoulder. He squeezes hard, far too hard for the touch to be comforting, digging his nails into Evan's skin.

"Evan," he whispers, urgently. _ "Evan." _

Evan's frequent nightmares are something Connor has never really gotten used to.

Well... he's _ used _to them, he supposes. Like, he knows to expect them. And he knows what to do to bring Evan back to himself, to calm his shuddering breaths and send the whirling images shrinking back to whatever dark corner of Evan's brain they came from.

But it never gets easier, seeing him in such distress. It still sends this aching feeling through him, knowing how much Evan suffers on the nights when it gets really bad, seeing the deep-set shadows under his eyes in the mornings.

It fucking sucks.

Connor's not sure if it's related to Evan's anxiety, or if he's just one of those unlucky people who’s plagued with bad dreams for no good fucking reason. Sometimes they're as frequent as once a week; once Evan had woken up quivering and close to tears three times in the space of three days. 

It's usually about something stupid; Evan's words, not his. Something that's 'not even scary, it just feels scary at the time'. Sometimes Evan claims to not even remember what the dream was about, just shaking his head blearily as he sinks into Connor's arms, taking deep, measured breaths to try and calm himself down. 

Sometimes they're so vivid that Evan's disoriented upon waking. Once he'd woken up and immediately stumbled into the kitchen of their crappy apartment, convinced the oven was on, despite the fact that they've not used the oven even once in the entire six months they've been living there.

Connor later learned that Evan had had a dream involving a house fire.

Which had made Connor feel...fucking _ angry _, weirdly enough.

He just...fucking _ hates _ Evan's brain sometimes. He hates every neuron, every electrical impulse that works against him, that _ hurts _ him like that. It isn't _ fair. _ Evan doesn't deserve it. Nobody could be _ less _ deserving of this shit, honestly.

Evan deserves to feel safe at night. Evan deserves a safe place to rest. 

How the hell is he ever able to find that when it's not safe inside his own head? 

Thankfully, dreams as bad as the fire one are few and far in between. Usually Connor is able to ease Evan back to sleep without too much difficulty, counting breaths with him until his heart stops pounding and his skin stops prickling and he settles back against Connor's chest with arms wrapped protectively around him.

Connor hopes tonight will be one of those easy nights.

"Evan," he whispers again, giving the shoulder under his hand a rough shake. “Ev--”

Evan startles awake with a heaving gasp, like he’s emerging from being underwater for a long time. His eyes flicker, adjusting to reality as well as the darkness of the room, confused and panicky and lost. They finally land on Connor, and he still looks so unbearably frightened, so fucking _tormented_, that Connor’s heart sinks, heavy with empathy. For a moment he thinks he might cry.

"Evan, Ev, you're OK--"

Connor rubs briskly at Evan's upper arms, his shoulders, in hopes that the touch will help draw him out of his own head. He pushes the covers down to Evan's stomach when he realizes how warm and clammy his skin feels, then fumbles to grab a hand to hold onto, interlocking their fingers and clenching on tight.

And usually, this is enough. Ground him with touch. Cool him down. Hold his hand. Usually Evan will sigh and wriggle close, and sometimes he'll tell Connor about the dream, if he remembers it. If it's about something silly Connor will make fun of him, teasing him gently until he laughs, drifting off with an easy smile on his face. If he doesn't remember, Connor will lull him back to sleep with gentle _ 'I love yous' _ and crooning nothingness. Normally, it's easy from here.

Which is why it's so alarming when Evan's eyes only widen upon seeing Connor, and he promptly throws himself at him, wrapping arms and legs around his torso, grabbing at anything he can reach and squeezing squeezing _ squeezing _…

"Evan--" Connor manages, his half-asleep brain still processing the sudden frenzy with which Evan's grabbing him. "Ev…"

Evan is shaking. Like. _ Badly _. Badly enough that Connor can hear his teeth knocking together, can feel the tremors in every inch of skin where they're pressed tightly together. 

"Evan," Connor says again, and Evan squeezes even harder, his grip almost bruising.

The scary part is that he still hasn't said anything.

He presses his face firmly against Connor's neck, latching onto him like a limpet as this silent hurricane of emotion rips through him. His fingers dig into Connor's waist, his legs locked around Connor's hips at uncomfortable angles, knees and ankles and elbows jabbing at him. 

It ought to hurt, but the only pain Connor can feel is Evan's.

It's only when Connor feels hot tears slipping down his collarbone that his brain kicks into gear.

_ Fucking do something. _

"Want me to count with you?" he asks quietly, and it takes monumental effort to keep his voice calm, because he's starting to panic now, and he only gets more concerned when Evan says nothing, just vigorously shakes his head no against Connor's chest.

"Five senses? Headspace app?" Connor offers, desperation surfacing in his voice despite his attempts to hold it back, rubbing Evan's arms with too much force as he mentally cycles through all the stuff that usually helps.

Evan lets out this gasping little sob into Connor's skin, and Connor thinks _ fuck fuck fuck _, and then Evan's twisting his face away from Connor's neck, pulling back.

And when Evan finally speaks it's so choked up, so timid, that it takes Connor a moment to decipher what he's saying.

"Can you...do the thing?"

Connor knows exactly what he's talking about. He kicks himself for not having thought of it _ first. _

"Yeah," Connor whispers. "Yeah, of course. Here, just--scooch over a bit."

So Evan relinquishes his hold on Connor and rolls away, just the tiniest bit, reluctantly shifting so he's lying on his stomach. He keeps one leg flung over Connor's, like he's not quite ready for no skin-on-skin contact at all, like being connected to Connor through touch is the only thing holding him together.

Connor does the thing.

He drags a single finger over the bare skin of Evan's back, in a slow, steady series of loops meeting in the middle. A straight line, next; all the way down to the small of Evan's back. Then a sort-of teardrop shape, the tip of which extends over the side of Evan's rib cage. 

Then Connor waits.

"...Is it a flower?" Evan asks softly, and Connor is relieved to hear that his voice is just a little steadier, his breathing gradually becoming regular again.

“Mm-hm,” says Connor.

Connor can't quite remember when he figured out this strategy. It had happened on accident, he's pretty sure. Drawing is just...in Connor's blood, so it's not surprising that one evening he'd found himself absently doodling on Evan's skin with his fingertips. 

What he hadn't anticipated was how relaxing Evan found it. The touch soothed, and the images gave Evan's brain something to focus on. A problem to solve; something with a clear objective, with one right answer. 

It just..._works. _

So Connor will 'do the thing' as often as Evan needs. Any time.

Also, like. He feels fucking selfish for even thinking it, but it means he gets an excuse to touch Evan, so. Win-win.

“Do you want another one?” he asks.

“Yes please,” Evan whispers, and Connor's not sure but it sounds like he's stopped crying. 

But only just.

“OK,” Connor murmurs.

He starts a new one, a series of curves and circles and straight lines at all different angles, zig-zagging, stopping and starting again, and--

"You're going too fast," Evan gripes, with such sudden attitude that Connor can’t help but chuckle, relief settling over him and soothing his frazzled nerves. 

“Sorry,” he says, happy to appease Evan if it means he’s starting to feel a bit more like himself again, and he slows down, pausing here and there to give Evan a chance to decipher his movements.

“C,” Evan mumbles into the pillow, and Connor goes _ “mm” _ and continues.

“O,” says Evan, and Connor goes, “Yep.”

“...N...it’s your name. Connor.”

“You got it,” Connor murmurs. 

Evan lets out a soft breath through his nose; not quite a laugh, but almost.

“Are you labeling me? Property of Connor Murphy?” he asks, with weak amusement.

“In case you get lost,” Connor justifies, teasingly. “You want one more, or…?”

“Yeah,” Evan breathes. “Yes. Thank you.”

Connor smiles fondly, even though Evan can’t see him, and he watches the now-calm rise and fall of Evan’s shoulder blades as he breathes.

He brushes his index finger along Evan’s back once more; long, sweeping lines, joined together with a curving arch at the top. A few more meticulously placed strokes, then punctuated with brisk, flicking dots, and then--

“Connor. Connor you did _ not _just draw a dick on me.”

Connor snickers.

“Wait, I haven’t finished the balls yet--”

“_Connor.” _

Connor's full-on cackling now, and Evan’s laughing too, face pressed into the pillow, muttering _ “you’re the worst” _into the fabric.

“You’re so ungrateful,” Connor huffs in mock-offense. “No appreciation for the _ detail _ that I--”

“Oh, I noticed the detail,” Evan objects through his laughter. “You made it come on me and everything.”

“Only the best for you.”

“Terrible,” mutters Evan, “You’re _ terrible. _ The one and only dick pic I get from Connor Murphy--”

“Wait,” Connor interrupts, a grin forming on his face. “Gonna stop you right there. First of all, if you ever want a dick pic, all you have to do is _ ask _, Ev--”

“Oh my god, shut _ up--” _

“And secondly,” Connor continues wickedly, trying hard not to laugh as Evan blindly flips him off over his shoulder, “Who’s to say it’s _ my _dick?”

“Oh my god, please don’t tell me I’ve got _ my own dick _ on my--”

“Of course not,” Connor scoffs.

A pause. 

Just to build the suspense.

“It’s Jared’s dick.”

Evan dissolves into laughter, rolling to face Connor, face red and eyes glassy, going _ “No, no you fucking take that back, you’re _ _ disgusting--” _

Connor laughs along with him, and he gathers Evan into his arms as they giggle helplessly together.

“I need a skin graft,” Evan mutters, as their laughter finally dies away. “I need to just...remove my whole back now.” 

Which almost sends Connor off into uproarious laughter again.

But he holds it back. 

There’s something more pressing on his mind.

“What happened?” He asks, quiet and abruptly subdued. “You wanna talk about it, or…?”

Evan breathes out a sigh, nuzzling his face into Connor’s chest. 

“I’m not sure if I can--”

“You don’t have to,” Connor rushes to assure him. “I just thought…”

He trails off, letting the unfinished sentence speak for itself.

He doesn’t expect an answer. Not really.

But after a long stretch of silence, he gets one.

“It worked,” Evan says ambiguously, barely audible. 

He sounds so..._ empty _, so drained that Connor almost regrets asking. 

Connor opens his mouth to ask for clarification.

But Evan keeps talking.

Quiet and thready.

“It worked...the pills. In the park. And...and I was the one who...who _ found _ you. I found you there, I--”

Evan’s voice dies. 

Like he can’t bear to continue.

Fuck.

_ Fuck. _

Connor feels like he’s falling, like he’s dropping from a 40-foot tall oak tree, like he’s drowning, like he’s choking on vomit and a fistful of pills.

This is _ his fault. _

He lies there in silent horror, holding Evan close for a long time.

He’s never regretted his attempt so badly before in his life.

It takes him forever to speak.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers frailly, and he’s not going to cry, he’s not going to _ fucking cry _ , he won’t make this about him, he _ won’t. _

Evan sighs, but he doesn’t sound upset with Connor. It’s just an extended breath, a stretched out letter H sound, like he’s releasing all the tension in his body out through his lungs. 

“It was years ago,” Evan says simply. “We were what, seventeen? It was before I even knew you, really. And you shouldn’t be sorry, regardless. You know I don’t, like..._ blame _you for having a mental illness, Connor, that’s fucking--”

“But you’re...you’re having _ nightmares _about it, Evan, _ fuck _, I--”

“Connor,” Evan says, in sudden dry monotone that jolts Connor out of his anguish. 

“Connor, I once had a nightmare about Zoe secretly being several raccoons in a big coat. And I woke up scared out of my mind about it.”

Connor laughs weakly at this.

“But--” 

“No,” Evan says firmly. “I’m just saying, I have nightmares about all sorts of shit that... doesn't always make sense. And besides, I'm not gonna let _ you _ take the blame for _ my _ shitty dream. It’s not on you. My brain just sucks, OK?”

He presses the gentlest of kisses to Connor’s collarbone.

“OK,” Connor whispers.

He still feels awful. He wants to do something, say _ something _ to put Evan’s mind at ease…

But he has no idea what to say.

He can’t promise Evan he’s going to live forever, obviously. 

And he hasn’t thought about...about doing that shit in a long long time.

But.

But Connor has clinical depression and a history of self-harm and suicide ideation. 

He doesn’t _ think _ he’s ever going to feel that far gone ever again. But he has no guarantee. He just...doesn’t _know._

Connor is easy to read, Evan always says. An open book. Obvious. 

And Evan pulls back enough to look at Connor’s undoubtedly anxious face, and reads him.

And then he gives Connor exactly what he needs. 

A prompt. 

“If you ever feel like that again, you’d talk to me, wouldn’t you? You’d let me help you, you wouldn’t just...just _ go?” _

He would. Of course Connor would. 

Because he doesn’t want to go. Not really.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yes. I would.”

“Good,” says Evan.

Then he curls back into Connor’s arms like it’s just as simple as that. 

_ Fuck, _ Connor loves him.

He drags his fingers up and down Evan’s back, slow and comforting, just enjoying the feel of Evan’s skin, the sounds of Evan’s peaceful little sighs.

“What’s this one meant to be?” he murmurs, breath warm against Connor’s neck, and it takes Connor a moment to realize what he means.

Connor smiles. Keeps stroking Evan’s back, up and down. Up and down.

“It’s abstract,” he tells him. “Open to interpretation. What do _ you _think it means?”

Evan snuggles into Connor’s arms.

Safe. Protected.

Connor feels safe and protected, too.

“I think I have a few ideas,” Evan mumbles.

He doesn’t tell Connor his ideas.

But he drifts back to sleep, completely relaxed with the smallest, sweetest smile on his face.

And Connor’s pretty sure he gets it. 


End file.
